


Something Borrowed

by DontForgetToPanic



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dan is Death and Death is a character, Fluff, Holidays, Humor, Inspired by Meet Joe Black, M/M, POV Multiple, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Temporary Character Death, This is a bit of a weird fic?, although that comes later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-04-25 09:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14375904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontForgetToPanic/pseuds/DontForgetToPanic
Summary: When Death decides to go on holiday he borrows a body and the name Dan. Pretending to be human is harder than expected.Where Tom is Dan’s human guide, Phil's the roommate Dan accidentally falls in love with, Hazel's poetic when drunk, PJ has a score to settle with the rival Mall's Santa, and everyone gets paid to wear green tights.





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve come to love Tom lately, so of course I have to make him a main character. Go Tom! 
> 
> This fic is sort of a rewrite of something I cooked up back in 2013 inspired by Meet Joe Black. I completely forgot how much I love the movie, I can't believe I couldn't find any AUs of it in the phandom!
> 
> I have the whole fic written but I'm only about 1/3 through proof-reading. Since I'm falling asleep I figured I might as well post some of it and get the rest up in the next few days.

Phil has come to find that there’s something magical about London on a Sunday morning, something calming and refreshing and warm regardless of weather. He can’t quite put into words _why,_ but it probably has something to do with the way everything's a little more quiet and a little less rushed. Big cities tend to gift Phil with a sense of loneliness, yet he's anything but lonely when walking the streets alone on a Sunday morning.

The problem with living in one of the busiest cities in the world is that’s it’s loud (loud to a claustrophobic, grating intensity), and despite what Tom may say Phil _does_ like to occasionally go outside, and when he stumbled upon a small diner café honoring the magic of a Sunday morning he latched onto it with an unbridled intensity.  So every Sunday morning for the past three years he's taken refuge in the welcoming arms of  _Lucy’s London Diner_ , allowing it to become a place he can shrug off his constant buzzing anxiety and let the soft hum of the coffee machine and soothing murmur of the radiator wash over him.

The diner is hidden in plain sight, situated between two rival auto-repair shops and across the street from a struggling record shop. He found it by accident on his way home to his and Tom’s shared flat, waving off an invitation from his mates who were off to get a drink (or two, or seven) and celebrate it being a Friday, because despite his boundless love for his friends Phil occasionally suffers bad days, days when he can be empty for no reason and forlorn because he can. Thus, on this particular Friday three years ago he walked the streets of London with a heart as despondent as the black-painted sky.

Now, take this moment to remember that Phil has no sense of direction.

He’s lost, still a stranger to the city, a wanderer with no inkling as to where to go from here. It’s only through sheer fatigue that he ducks into the desolate diner and it only takes a moment to fall in love with the place, in love with the curling wall-paper and the tattered booths, with the owner towering behind the counter with her American-style beehive hair. Everything about this place screamed unlikely home, and that’s what Phil has always longed for, right? Home.

(Some can claim that on this Friday Phil sealed his Fate, sealed it the second he stepped foot in this quiet run-down café and chose to keep it in his life.)

(Others, meanwhile, might argue Phil’s Fate was already set long ago, back when he was a child and Death spared him from entering the Beyond, spared him from following his father and mother and brother there like he was written to do.)

~*~

This Sunday morning starts off like every other Sunday, in respect. Phil gets to _Lucy’s_ at 8am on the dot (not one for schedules, but coming here is different, reverent) and takes his usual place at the counter next to the dirtied window, decades of muck and dust and disgusting residue covering the glass (yet Phil finds it perfect, reminiscent of the place his mum used to take him after Mass when he was young, a Lester Sunday ritual).

Lucy, a talkative elderly woman who grew up in the States, doesn’t even have to ask for his order anymore; instead, he’s always greeted with a coffee, eggs on toast, and an update on Lucy’s eccentric daughter (now currently in Uni and dating the most “awful boy imaginable, he actually _likes_ Boris Johnson!”).

Phil’s halfway finished with his breakfast when the original Daniel Howell walks in.

 

The first thing Phil notices is that he looks much too young to be in a business suit; although he must only be a few years younger than Phil, he still would look more at home in a school uniform than professional attire. That doesn’t take away from the fact that this boy is attractive, though… not in the least. It might even adds to his beauty, cheeks not yet marred by lines of worry and his eyes yet to be burdened by pain, laced with a light of innocence that could only be found in those yet to meet Death, only brushing past Him at the most.

Looking deeper, Phil now notices the obvious weight hanging around his shoulders, something of malcontent and longing. It looks heavy.

Phil has an overwhelming urge to help carry it.

Phil’s not sure if he believes in love at first sight, but this might just be it.

The man sits on a stool two seats away and Phil can’t help but stare from the corners of his eyes (the curly hair, dark, obviously brushed and pushed back in a failed attempt at neatness) as the man orders his food with a smile showing off his dimples (and those lips…Phil can’t help but hold his breath).

Phil tears his eyes away because he needs to _stop being creepy just eat your food NO don’t look again oh god his neck is gorgeous when he’s drinking wait no stop looking ugh gotta get a coffee refill where’s Lucy—_

“Daniel Howell, but you can just call me Dan.” 

Phil jerks out of his thoughts and almost falls off his stool.

Sometime during Phil’s inner monologue Dan must have switched seats, because suddenly he’s so close their knees are a breath’s hair away from touching. His eyes twinkle as trying to refrain from laughing at Phil’s reaction, which only causes Phil’s brain to short-circuits.

Dan holds out his hand for Phil to shake and waits for him to introduce himself.

“Phil. Phil Lester,” he answers, forcing a smile (although it ends up looking more like a grimace than anything). He reluctantly shakes hands and hopes Dan doesn’t notice how clammy his hands have become and wow Dan’s hands are so nice, firm, soft, warm. Dan seems just as reluctant to let go as Phil does.

“I saw you staring at me so I thought I might as well come over and introduce myself,” Dan says once they have their hands to themselves, and okay Phil really isn’t one to blush—no matter what Tom says _thank you very much_ —but being caught checking out a perfect stranger is rather blush-worthy. 

So yes, Phil blushes.

“Shoot, I’m so sorry, I tend to space out at the most inopportune times…”

“No, no it’s okay!” Dan laughs, holding up his hands in reassurance. He leans back and gives Phil a once-over to even the score.

In that moment some might say Dan looks cocky with his lopsided smile and eyebrow quirked up in something resembling approval, but Phil would disagree—Dan seems much too sincere to be cocky. He might even go as far to say Dan looks genuine yet hesitant.

Shit, Phil’s staring again.

“Um—”

Dan smiles even wider, “It’s rather flattering, really. I don’t think I’ve ever caught anyone checking me out before. Well, not anyone sober at least.”

“I find that hard to believe, I’m pretty sure you’re just being modest,” Phil says… and hold up is he actually flirting right now? He can’t even remember the last time he flirted with someone.

Phil reaches up to run his fingers through his unstyled hair and yup, he’s flirting, this is flirting.

“I’ve also never been called modest before. Today’s a day of firsts, apparently,” Dan chides. Lucy comes by to silently refill Phil’s coffee, but once she’s behind Dan’s line of sight she shoots Phil an exaggerated wink.

Phil definitely does _not_ blush.  

There’s a lull in the conversation while Dan takes a bit of his eggs. There’s an itch under Phil’s skin screaming at him to say something.

“So, Dan, why’s a lad such as yourself sitting alone?”

_No! Why would Phil think that’s a good icebreaker?_

Dan shrugs, “Usual story—I’m chronically single so I like to come here occasionally and wallow in my own self-pity.” Phil’s eyebrows shoot up and he releases an involuntary bark of laughter.

“We should start a _perpetually single_ support group, then.  We could have breakfast meetings here.”

“I’m in,” Dan grins.

“Should call ourselves the Breakfast Club, I don’t think anyone’s used that name before,” Phil suggests, trying and failing to look as genuine as possible. Dan cracks again and giggles into his arm. Lucy fondly rolls her eyes when she walks by.

“That’s not even that funny,” Dan says with a shake of his head, still smiling, “rather lame, all things considered.”  

“Yeah, but aren’t lame jokes the best?” Phil counters. Dan shakes his head again and takes a bit of his eggs, which have started to go cold while they’ve been talking. Phil takes a bite of his own toast but focuses most of his attention on Dan, watching him with a calculating eye.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Phil says a few moments later, “but did you just come from a funeral or something?”

Dan chokes on his bite of egg and it takes a second before he can speak.

“No, I didn’t, why?  Do I look despondent or something?” Phil shakes his head and tries not to laugh (because really, despondent? He couldn’t just say sad or something like a normal person?).

“Not that, it’s just… you look sort of out of place in a suit. Not that you don’t look great in it because legit trust me _you do_ ,” Phil blurts out, “and I was going to ask if you just skipped out of your wedding or something but I thought I’d try the funeral approach first.”

“Nah, nothing dramatic like that,” Dan waves his hand, dismissive, “I’m finishing my degree this year and all I have left to do is this internship, one which sadly includes a terribly strict dress code. Although Fridays we are allowed to wear sweater-vests, so I guess that makes up for it,” Dan answers, winking at the last bit so Phil knows he’s being sarcastic.

“Sweater-vests, how spiffy,” Phil jokes. But wait… “Hold up, you work on Sundays?”

Dan snorts.

“Yup. The post gets a day off, but I don’t; I work at Parliament and my boss likes to keep inconvenient hours. It’s cool though… I get a briefcase, so that right there proves how important I am,” Dan rolls his eyes and Phil laughs at the obvious sarcasm dripping from Dan’s voice.

“My goodness, a briefcase?  With qualifications like that I’ve no doubt you’ll be prime minister by next election.”

“Was there ever a doubt?” Dan winks.

Phil fights the overwhelming urge to swoon—he’s not going to let a _wink_ turn him into a protagonist in a Victorian romance novel.

“Yeah, I hate the job but I don’t know what else to do, you know? My family really pushed for me to go into this career so here I am,” Dan admits, “But enough about my sucky job, what about you? You must do something way more exciting than me, I can tell.”

“Oh my job is substantially more boring,” Phil admits, “I work at a photography studio in the mall. I’m in charge of the photoshop and stuff. Although this week starts holiday season, you know what that means, right?”

Dan shakes his head, amused.

“Santa’s coming to town!” Phil shouts, ignoring the small number of patrons scattered around the diner.

“Does this mean you get to take Santa’s portrait?”

“Even better,” Phil says with exaggerated enthusiasm, “I get the privilege of dressing up like an elf and trying to get children to smile. It’s a lot harder than it sounds—babies seem to find me scary for some reason. Chips away at my self-esteem to be honest,” Phil’s smiling as he shakes his head as if to say both _fml_ and _oh well, it’s a job._

Dan laughs in response, but before anyone can say anything he bolts upright and looks down at his watch.

“Oh, fuck me, I’m late.” Dan quickly reaches into his pocket and drops some cash next to his half-finished plate.  Phil’s hit with a pang of regret—he was going to see if Dan was free later, but he’s pretty sure Dan doesn’t have time to waste on someone like Phil. Dan’s undoubtedly got a bright future, one without a place for Phil.

“I’m so sorry I’ve got to go,” Dan continues, “it was wonderful chatting with you, though.”

Dan rushes to the exit, sending a quick wave over his shoulder before the door swings behind him with an air of finality. Phil watches the door for a moment before he forces himself to snap out of it, don’t be weird. He figures it’s time for him to leave as well so he drops a few pounds next to Dan’s and waves goodbye to Lucy.

There’s more people than usual walking the streets today, there must be some big event or something Phil doesn’t know about.  He pauses right outside the diner entrance for a moment and glances both ways down the pavement in hopes of seeing the stranger for another fleeting moment (just a wisp of his soft curls, pale cheeks, pink lips, stunning eyes, gorgeous smile… just one moment more). 

Phil gives up hope and ducks his head before heading home. He turns left.

Now, if Phil decided to instead turn right he would have seen Dan frantically pushing through the crowd to get back to the diner and ask for Phil’s number.

if Phil decided to turn right he would have seen Dan cross the intersection a moment too early, would’ve seen Dan stumble a bit, unaware of his surroundings.

if Phil went right he would have seen a taxicab run a red light, barreling through the intersection a bit too fast, hitting Dan at full force, sending him flying through the air in a graceful arch until his head hits the pavement, skull cracked and bleeding out until a red halo puddles around his splayed curls.

~*~

 

Tom doesn’t remember exactly when Phil moved in, although he guesses it was a few months after Tom moved out of his Uni apartments and into his own flat. It was gradual at first, a few spare outfits in the drawers and an extra toothbrush in the bathroom, but before he knew it the spare room was filled with Phil’s many trinkets, his mass collection of Christmas ornaments and snow globes littered about, one wall covered in black and white polaroids of different people, most of which Tom has never met (and as the years progressed a few pictures of Tom even made it up, and some of Hazel and Jimmy and PJ as well).

Sometimes Tom wonders why he allowed it, seeing how Phil almost never pays rent and he leaves his clothes everywhere and whenever he invites a hook-up over (although to be fair, it’s not very often) they always end up getting ‘groovy’ in the living room on Tom’s sofa even when there’s a perfectly good bed in the guest room and Phil knows perfectly well there is because he’s been living in there god damn it!

Anyway…

So it’s days like today (Tom’s one day, _one_ day off work) that he wonders why he hasn’t kicked Phil out a long time ago, because for the love of everything holy he did not sign up for spending his Sundays picking a used condom out from the side of the couch.

“You know what? Phil’s getting my couch dry-cleaned now. Yup, when he gets home I’m going to talk to him—no, _sternly_ talk to him—and point out all the reasons he’s such a crap roommate. Like leaving all the cupboard doors open in the kitchen, what’s with that? And then I’ll insist that if he’s going to stay here he has to do more around the flat. There it’s decided.”

Tom’s alone in the apartment, mind you, so the only sympathetic ears are the walls. The walls have heard this monologue a number of times, so they know by now that Tom isn’t going to follow through on his empty threats. He likes having Phil as a housemate (not that he’d admit it).

Tom would tell the walls to fuck off if he ever found out their opinions on the matter.

“I don’t think it’s quite normal to talk to walls. Although I’m not exactly an expert on normal human behavior so I could be wrong.”

Tom blushes and looks down at his shoes, and he’s ready to argue that he doesn’t usually talk to himself but he stops mid-breath.

Because he’s pretty sure he’s home alone at the moment.

“Oh don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you, I’m on holiday,” the voice continues. That does nothing to actually comfort Tom, oddly enough. He’s trying to decide whether he should turn around and face the intruder or if he should just make a mad dash towards the front door when the intruder decides for him, moving to stand in front of Tom, still behind the couch.

Tom’s caught off guard—the intruder isn’t the bearded, six foot tall mass murderer he was expecting. Instead, he’s greeted by a boy who must be twenty tops, curly hair framing his soft face and sharp cheekbones. He’s tall but in a lanky way, as if he’s just grown a lot in a short time, not yet used to his long limbs and only just starting to be able to control them.

In a whole this boy (because compared to Tom, 25 and already sporting a light beard) doesn’t look like he could hurt a fly.

“I’m sorry, but how did you get in here?” Tom asks, trying to be as calm as possible because he learned from all those suspense and action movies to not underestimate anyone… all you’ve got to do is turn your back and they’ll stab you or run you over with a Zamboni or shave your head while you’re asleep.

The boy chuckles. It’s unsettling, the laugh—his skin crawls and the hair on his neck stands on end.

That’s not the laugh of a boy.

“Seeing as I’m Death, I think I have a few tricks in my jacket.” The boy says and Tom, having no survival instinct apparently, cocks his head to the side and has the gall to look confused.

“You mean sleeve?” Tom corrects. The boy just frowns and furrows his eyebrows, looking absolutely adorably confused and if he wasn’t, you know, a _potential mass murderer_ , Tom would coo over him and offer him some tea and a blanket (and maybe a hug).

“What?” The boy asks, and really Tom must not be thinking, because he answers.

“You said you have a few tricks in your jacket, but the term is ‘up your sleeve’.” Tom points out. The other boy only looks more confused.

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense, my sleeve is rather small; I don’t think all my metaphorical tricks can fit. It needs a whole jacket.”

“It’s just that, um, I mean,” Tom stutters, fingers tangling with the hem of his shirt, “well, it doesn’t really matter, does it? If the tricks are metaphorical then can’t you just make them really small? Like…” Tom freezes, the intruder’s words catching up with him, “hold up, what do you mean you’re death?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. I’m Death.” The boy says, ignoring Tom’s first statement.  It’s rather eerie, the way he talks (the way he says he’s Death, as if the D is capitalized, as if it’s a name), and if Tom didn’t already feel uncomfortable he certainly does now.

“Uh, are you sure you’re not, like, some psychopath who thinks it’s his job to kill all the firstborn sons with brown hair or something, are you?” Tom asks, survival-mode finally kicking in as he slowly backing up and trying his hardest not to make any sudden movements, because for all he knows this man could be armed, or have accomplices outside ready to strike, or be endowed with mind powers or something (Tom just watched X-Men with Jimmy last night, so he’s now pretty certain there really are people with kick-ass mutations just hiding…waiting for the opportune moment to strike).

“No, don’t worry. I’m not a psychopath, whatever that is. I’m just Death and it’s not your time yet, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Right, right, because you’re on holiday.” Tom answers, meaning to sound sarcastic (because like he said before, he has absolutely zero survival instinct) yet the other boy nods his head in agreement, as if excited that Tom finally understands the nonsense he’s been spouting.

“Exactly, you’re catching on! So, I need a favor from you.” Death widens his lips as if he’s trying to smile, but instead he looks as if he’s about to unhinge his jaw and swallow Tom whole.

Tom chokes on his own spit, “You need a favor? You break into my home because you need a favor?” Death nods and Tom would laugh if the stranger didn’t look so serious.

“I’m not going to help out a stranger who just broke into my house! Just because you promise you aren’t going to kill me isn’t too reassuring if I’m being honest here. I don’t know how much of an idiot you think I am but I can assure you, I’m not. Well, sometimes I’m an idiot but I’m not _that_ big of an idiot. My roommate’s going to be home soon, and when he gets here he’ll call the police and I’ll make sure you get some psychiatric help mate, because you certainly need it.”

Tom instantly regrets everything he just said because the last thing one should do is aggravate the obviously crazy person who just broke into your home.

Death doesn’t move, just cocks his head to the side and studies Tom up and down, eyes trailing along his torso in a calculating gaze.

“I’ve met you before. We’re not strangers.”  Death nods to himself and meets Tom’s eyes, his dark gaze boring into Tom, _through_ Tom. Death twists his lips back up in his awkward not-smile, proud of his observation, as if that’s the important issue in Tom’s little rant.

“I’ve never met you before in my life, I’m certain of it. No offence mate, but you give off a rather creepy vibe, it would be hard to forget,” Tom huffs out, rolling his eyes as if he’s talking to a rather annoying neighbor instead of a crazy guy who just introduced himself as fucking _death_ (sorry, Death, capitol D).

“Oh, I promise we’ve met,” Death replies, smiling wider, his lips stretching out a bit too much to be completely human, “you were born into my arms, but you struggled. You weren’t ready to follow me Beyond yet.. yes, yes, I remember you.  I remember all.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, I…” Tom cuts himself off and furrows his eyebrows, staring at his shoes for a moment before looking back up at the stranger, “how do you know I was born dead?”

“I just said, don’t you listen? I held you, was ready to guide you Beyond. That wasn’t the only time, though. It was a routine surgery, was it not? I took your hand, ready to carry you forward, but you struggled again, fought your way out of my hands. You weren’t ready, I never take someone before they’re ready,” Death says, his (borrowed) face stoic.

Tom shakes his head.

“You could've found that out anywhere, hacked my medical records. I don’t know what you want but please, please leave, I…”

“You might be ready now,” Death interrupts.  The man’s face drops any pretense at emotion and everything, even his eyes, looses all sense of life. A chill runs down Toms spine from the sheer lifelessness in front of him, and when the man’s words sink in Tom shivers.

Tom shakes his head again, harder. “No, no I’m not ready. And just because you know a few things about me that anyone can find out doesn’t mean I believe you. It’s—”

The stranger raises his pointer finger to silence him once again, and then suddenly he’s moving forward with an unearthly grace Tom doesn’t understand. He reaches out with one hand and placing it ever-so-gently on Tom’s neck. And then he gives him a taste.

Tom’s back arches and his mouth opens in a silent scream as Death lets him taste only a little bit of what Life really is, taste the sorrow and joy, terror and pain, heartbreak and love, numbness and warmth. Death only feeds him one single drop of what Death consumes on a daily bases, what he feels each time he leads a soul home.

Death takes back his hand.

“What—what was that?” Tom gasps, shuffling back a bit until his legs hit the sofa and he falls onto the cushions, sitting forward as if to let the blood rush back to his head.

“What did you d-do to me?” He asks again, only a whisper.

“I understand that for mortals it’s hard to understand, so in simple terms I showed you _me_. With Death comes Life, and I showed you Life. I thought it best I give you, how would you put this… proof? Yeah, I thought I should prove who I am to make everything easier for you. I gave you a taste of condensed Life. Do you believe me now?” Death looks expectantly at Tom. Tom, in return, shakes his head because no, this is obviously a dream.

Tom’s brain is currently flashing a huge _Does Not Compute_ error.

“No, no I don’t believe you, I absolutely do not, because that…”

“That was what? What could you still be confused about?” Death asks, eyebrows knitted together, lips slightly parted in question. Tom wonders if the other man only has two emotions, confused and vacant.

“You could have drugged me, that’s it. Yeah, you drugged me. I don’t—”

“Okay, now you’re wasting my energy,” Death interrupts, shaking his head and…does he look disappointed? “I’ll give you a choice, you either be my earthly guide for the few weeks I’m on holiday, or I break my rule and lead you Beyond so I can find someone else. Okay?”

Yeah, Tom’s not a fan of that second option.

“No, no that’s not okay, not okay, I’m not ready to die, not going to die, I don’t want to die. Come on, I haven’t even gotten married yet. I still need to go to India, I’ve always wanted to go to India…I haven’t…”

“Oh dear, are all humans so mundane?” Death asks, looking genuinely curious, “You won’t die as long as you choose to be my earthly guide, how many times do I have to say that?”

“But, what’s stopping you from killing me after? What if I just lead you around and you just poof,” Tom throws his hands out to simulate an explosion, “kill me?”

Death rolls his eyes, because lucky for Tom Death apparently has attitude.

“I’m not the enemy or the villain. I’m a friend, a guide in my own right; when a soul is ready I lead them home, simple as that. Now _please_ , I’ve been waiting three millennia for a holiday, I think I earned this.”

Tom bites his fingernail, “But, what a-about...”

The door crashes open.

“Hey Tommo, I’m home! You can stop moping, I know you missed me—Dan?”

Tom and Death both look up, and Death gasps.

Because he remembers this soul, he would always remember this soul surrounded by rubble and debris and wreckage from a crash. It’s true that Death remembers all, but this soul is special like so few are. The memory plays in his mind, memory of this soul as it raised its arms, its presence perfectly calm and accepting, waiting for Death to lift it up and carry them Beyond.

Death remembers because it was the first soul he didn’t take even though it was ready; he never takes a soul until it’s ready and he never leaves one behind once it is...except...

Except with his arms cradling this soul something overcame him, flooded him from the inside.

That moment lasted forever, overcome for the first time with an emotion all to himself; emotion coming from inside and not humanity’s secondhand.

(Terror).

“What’re you doing here, Dan? You ran off, said you had to go to work, right?” Phil continues (Phil, his name’s Phil.  It’s amazing, after these years Death still had yet to learn this mortal’s name...Phil...).

“What?” Tom’s standing now, still shaking a bit as he looks from Death to Phil and back again, “you two know each other?”

Phil nods, his lips quirking up in a lazy smile, “Yeah, we just met this morning actually. Ate breakfast together. Bonded over lame jokes, right Dan?”

Death nods, playing along. Phil smiles. Tom frowns.

“Right, you’re Phil. We just met this morning.” Death smiles, the same wide grin as before and Tom grimaces, tries to hide his shudder from how _wrong_ that smile seems, but Phil seems oblivious and simply smiles back.

“Dan. You said his name’s Dan?” Tom asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Dan,” Death says, rolling the name around on his tongue, tasting it, trying it on for size. He quite likes it (quite likes the way Phil says it). “but you know my name Tom, since we’ve known each other since birth.”

Tom and Phil both raise their eyebrows in unison. They look like a right pair and Death (Dan) now knows what it feels like to find something humorous first hand.

“You’ve known each other for that long? Why haven’t I met you before?” Phil asks, and Death has to hold back from saying that they’ve met as well, that he could have (should have) taken Phil forever and led him to his final home.

“We haven’t spoken since Tom was a child,” Death explains, telling the truth and gesturing at Tom with a flick of his wrist, “but I have a few weeks with nowhere else to go and Tom here has graciously volunteered to let me stay for a while. Right Tom?” Tom nods right away, biting his lower lip.

“Right, yeah, he’s staying here for a bit… that is, if that’s cool with you, Phil?” Tom sputters and Phil smiles, oblivious to the tension in the room.

“I don’t mind! It’s always nice having houseguests. But Dan… you don’t have anywhere to go, does that mean you quit?” Phil seems curious but is still wearing a smile, warm and inviting and it’s like there’s a cloud around them, just ~~Death~~ Dan and Phil, and oh, what’s that, why is there a sudden tightness in Dan’s chest... mortal bodies are so odd.

“Sure,” Death nods, assuming that would be the least suspicious answer, “I quit.”  

“That’s wonderful, Dan! You shouldn’t have to do something you don’t like. I’m sure you’ll find something better soon.” Phil says, the smile on his face completely open and Dan wonders how it can be, how someone could just be so honest.  It’s rare for a human to be like that... they’re all so full of emotions, sure, but honesty is rarely so prominent.

“Yes, thank you...Phil,” Death answers. Phil absolutely beams, taking off his sopping jacket and hanging it on the rack.

“Cool, okay then. I’m going to go change, it started snowing on my walk back,” Phil explains, walking towards his bedroom but stopping in the doorway, turning around as if he forgot something.

“Oh, Dan?” Dan hums to let Phil know he’s listening, “I’m really glad I get to see more of you, I was scared we wouldn’t see each other again.”

Dan nods but Phil has already disappeared to his room.

“You two know each other?”

Death jumps, shoulders going tense and this is odd, this emotion. He doesn’t know how to place it...is this what feeling startled feels like?

“No, we don't,” Death lies, not wanting to explain anything to his guide just yet, “but I guess he’s met the man I borrowed this body from.”

A look of panic grazes Tom’s features and he looks back at Death with panic in his eyes, “What do you mean borrowed, like, you mean you _murdered_ someone just so you could use his body?”

Death shrugs, “You don’t need to put it so brutally...”

Tom shakes his head, “It’s too early for this. I’m going to take a shower, I’ll be right back. Just...sit here. Don’t move.” He points vaguely at the sofa and disappears down the hallway toward his own room, but Death doesn’t watch him go.

 _Dan_ , Death thinks, bouncing the name (his name) around in his newly encased mind, listening to its sound and playing with its edges.

“Dan, I quite like that.” Dan says aloud, the edges of his lips curling upward. Such an odd feeling.

“Dan,” he says again, and this time he pretends Phil’s the one saying it, and it sounds all the more beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the read! Leave a comment with your thoughts if you want (comments, even constructive criticism, makes me feel warm and tingly inside).
> 
> Follow me on tumblr if you want at dontforgettopanic.tumblr.com


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans are weird.

“Sorry but… what is this?” 

Dan keeps his voice neutral despite his obvious mistrust of the numerous takeout containers spread across the lounge’s coffee table.    

“Thai food. Tom said you like it,” Phil answers. He’s not paying too much attention to Dan, however—it’s vital for him to look through the delivery to see if Tom actually got the order right this time.

“Damn, Tom forgot to get praram again,” Phil pouts, “I swear he does this just to mess with me, he knows how much I love saying ‘praram.’  It sounds so _friendly_.  Praram.”

“That’s because you say it wrong.” Tom comes in through the kitchen carrying three plates and some cutlery. He sets them on the table before plopping down on the couch in the space between Phil and Dan, making sure to jostle Phil as much as possible and laughing when Phil squeaks in protest.

Dan’s silent through the whole exchange, too busy staring at the food as if it’s a puzzle he can’t crack.  He watches as Phil piles his plate with some chicken and what Dan assumes to be a rice and duck dish.

“There are dead animals in there?”

“That’s a weird way to put it,” Tom says. He starts digging through the takeout containers as well and tells Phil to turn on something called ‘Riverdale.’

“Why?”

Tom shrugs, “most people just call it meat.” Dan goes back to staring at the white box containing cubes of brown ‘meat.’ 

In theory Dan knew humans ate animals for nourishment, but he never gave much thought to the matter—humans do a lot of things Dan doesn’t understand.  Death doesn’t need to know what humans get up to in the Living, his job is to comfort them at the end of their lives, welcome them to the start of their Eternity, guide them to their final home.

Death doesn’t have to do the same for the other creatures of the Earth; while they are just as much Death’s children once they reach their end, animals don’t need the same reassurances humans require.  The animals enter the Beyond on their own accord, following their brethren through the mists.

It’s an odd feeling, staring at pieces of flesh that once housed a soul…a soul now at peace, now under Death’s care for their Eternity.

“Isn’t it all a bit callous, though?  To eat animals when they didn’t do anything to deserve it?” Dan leans closer to Tom in concern, “or wait, _did_ they do something?”

Phil chuckles, “well, ducks are huge assholes, does that count as a crime?”

“Um… I don’t think so?”

“He was joking,” Tom explains, voice clipped.  He doesn’t sound annoyed (Dan quickly learned what that emotion entails) but he _does_ sound like he’s getting there.

Phil leans forward to look across the couch at Dan.

“Honestly, you’re probably right, but meat tastes too good and I have zero self-restraint. It’s why we can’t keep marshmallows in the house. Oh! Speaking of self-restraint, I want wine. Preferably something other than boxed wine, we must have a bottle somewhere. Probably.”

“Unlikely,” Tom mumbles between bites of pad thai, “we probably finished the good stuff when Anthony and Cat came over last week.”

Phil groans but heads to the kitchen anyway, “this is why Americans can’t be trusted with our beverages. First they throw all our tea into the Boston Harbor and now they finish off our good wine.”    

Once Phil leaves the room Tom turns to Dan with an unamused frown.

“Seriously, mate, I thought you want to blend in?”

“I do.”

Tom rolls his eyes, “well you’re doing a piss-poor job of it, and it’s only been a day.  Listen, just go with the flow, okay?  Don’t keep asking weird questions and acting like you’re seeing everything for the first time… and for the love of God stop staring at everything with that dead look in your eyes. I get you’re Death and all but it’s really unsettling.” 

“There is no God. Well, not in the way most mortals think of it,” Dan supplies, helpful as ever.  

Tom heaves a sigh. 

“It’s an expression. See, this is a perfect example of something you _shouldn’t_ say to people,” Tom pauses for a moment, pensive, “also, no more spoilers like that.”

“Spoilers?”

“Spoilers. You know, stuff like how Snape kills Dumbledore or that Bruce Willis was dead the whole time.”

“Huh?”

Tom sighs even harder.

“They’re important plot details that I haven’t had the chance to figure out myself.  So, in this case, I’m saying I don’t want you to tell me stuff like ‘God doesn’t exist.’  I don’t want to know what happens after I kick it, I don’t want to know when I die, I don’t want to know if there’s a heaven. Got it?”

“Are you sure?” Dan asks, “people spend their whole lives trying to learn those things, I wouldn’t mind telling you—”

“No!” 

Before Dan can reply Phil reenters the room.  Tom sighs again, but this time in relief.

Dan thinks. It’s hard to tell an emotion in a sigh, maybe Tom just ate something spicy.

“I hate to admit it, Tom, but you were right, we only have the crappy boxed wine you bought last week. I’m officially in a bad mood,” Phil announces. He has three plastic cups balanced precariously under one arm and a fairly large box of red wine in the other hand.

“Better than nothin’ though,” Tom shrugs, “although we only need two cups, Dan doesn’t drink.”

Phil looks abashed. “Seriously? I don’t know how I’d survive being perpetually sober. Oh shit, you’re of age, right?”

“Yes, he’s of age!” Tom answers, throwing his hands up in the air a bit more frantic than necessary.

“Oh, good,” Phil nods, “I would be a terrible role model, I’m not ready to accidently corrupt a youth.”

Tom snorts. “You would be a fucking amazing role model, what’re you on about?”

Phil rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest.  It’s silent for a few heartbeats before Phil notices Dan’s empty plate.

“Did you get any food, Dan? Oh shit, are you vegan or something?  I should have checked with you, oh my god I’m so sorry!” 

Phil looks bothered (guilty?).  Something weird happens in Dan’s chest and he’s struck with an overwhelming need to comfort the other man.  Dan doesn’t know what vegan means, though, and Tom told him not to ask too many questions and ‘go with the flow,’ so Dan nods.

“Um, I forgot, Dan’s vegetarian!” Tom interjects before Dan can say anything, “just vegetarian though, not vegan. A vegan diet has too many restrictions that I don’t want to keep track of, right Dan?”

When Dan doesn’t immediately say anything Tom elbows him in the side (which… _ow_ ) and jerks his head towards Phil. It takes a moment until Dan realizes Tom’s trying to get him to confirm the story.

“Yeah, that’s right, I’m vegan—”

“Vegetarian!”

“I mean, vegetarian. What Tom said.”

Phil’s eyes dart between the other two, his eyebrows furrowed as if he’s looking at something odd and confusing (which, to be fair, he sort of is). Dan and Tom don’t elaborate so Phil just shrugs and accepts the fact that he associates with weird people.

“These two are vegetarian,” Phil points at two of the containers, “you can try those, maybe?”

Dan looks at the food again and, well, if Phil suggests he do something Dan might as well do it, right?

(Turns out yellow curry with chickpeas tastes amazing, how do humans not eat this every day?) 

They eat in relative silence for a while, watching some show on the tele where a bunch of teenagers complain and talk about murder a lot. What puzzles Dan the most is that one character’s named Jughead which, like, what kind of parent would name their kid that? 

At some point Phil moved to sit on the carpet, his back resting against the couch and his head cocked to the side, and suddenly Dan loses all ability to concentrate on the show.  No matter how hard he tries he can’t stop staring at the other man’s profile, at his full lips and those bright eyes and the smooth skin of his neck…

“So, Dan, how long are you staying?”

Dan breaks from his trance when he hears Phil’s voice. The episode must have just ended, because Phil’s attention shifts to his new houseguest and waits expectantly for an answer.

“I’m leaving the morning after modern day Christmas,” Dan answers. The room suddenly feels too hot under Phil’s scorching gaze, overwhelmed now that he’s the sole subject of Phil’s undivided attention.

(Tom, meanwhile, resists the urge to facepalm because what the fuck, who prefaces the word Christmas with _modern day_?)

“Cool, so about a month,” Phil grins, “fair warning, I get kind of excited about the holidays. This apartment’s about to be covered in decorations.”

Dan doesn’t know what to say so he stays silent.  Phil shifts his weight from side to side and his eyes dart around the room, looking at anything that’s _not_ Dan and oh, right, humans are uncomfortable with silence and prolonged eye-contact.

Tom cracks first under the heavy silence. 

“Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m pretty knackered.”  Tom fakes a yawn to try and corroborate his story.

“Knackered?” Dan asks. He’s about to ask Tom to elaborate but the words die in his mouth when Tom elbows him again and shoots him a weird, urgent look.  This must be another question Dan’s not allowed to ask. How inconvenient.

“Yeah, I’m tired, too,” Phil agrees, ignoring Tom and Dan’s weird exchange, “let me go grab some blankets and stuff so we can get you set up on the couch.”

“You don’t have to do that, I’ll just share with Tom,” Dan says.  For some reason Phil looks puzzled at the suggestion and Tom drops his head back to stare up at the ceiling. 

“Humans share beds all the time,” Dan elaborates.  Phil somehow looks more confused than before.

Tom forces himself to smile. “Yeah, sure, Dan and I are bros.  Extra close pals. I’m totally fine with us sharing my size double bed.”

Phil looks between them for a moment and then shrugs because honestly Tom’s done much weirder things than this.

~*~

“What’s this?” Dan asks, holding up one of the appliances on the kitchen counter. Tom spares a glance over to Dan before sighing and returning to his noble quest to get Linda (Phil’s six-year-old coffee machine) to work.

“That’s a toaster.”

Dan hums and flips it over to study the bottom.

“What does it do?”

“It toasts bread,” Tom answers. A moment later he fist pumps the air because Linda’s finally making the weird sputtering noises that sound when she turns on.

“Bread is a food,” Dan points out.

“Wow, you’re a right investigator, aren’t you?” Tom says with a dry tone, “now put that down before you break it even more, Phil already managed to mangle it last week.”

Dan sets it down.

“So, what’re we doing today?” Dan asks, watching Tom putter around the kitchen.

“You can entertain yourself, I have to work.”

“Alright, I’ll join you,” Dan says, and now that certainly caught Tom’s attention. 

“No, absolutely not, no _way_ are you coming to work with me. I’m pretty sure there aren’t any open positions anyway.”

“Just take me with you, I’ll open one up,” Dan says in the monotone voice that never fails to send chills down Tom’s spine.

“No! You are _not_ allowed to kill one of my coworkers.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily have to kill them,” Dan shrugs, “I can just put them in a sleep state until I leave.”

“That’s not happening, understand?  I’ll talk to the manager, okay? He owes me one.”

“Good,” Dan replies, but his attention has already wandered and he’s back to inspecting the kitchen, picking up every pot, pan, and appliance he can find. 

Tom’s just about done with his breakfast when Phil wanders in looking like he’s still half asleep.

“It’s too early,” Phil moans, “I need coffee.”

“You say that every day,” Tom points out, helpful as ever.  Phil tries to glare but he ends up looking like he just smelled something rancid.  Dan finds his expression both funny and adorable, which he finds to be a rather weird combination.

“Doesn’t make it not true,” Phil grumbles, “anyway, are you ready to leave, Santa? It’s our first day of the year as Christmas toymakers so we can’t miss the train.”

“Ugh, why. Why did I think it was a good idea to take a job where every kid in London sits on my lap and wipes their weird sticky hands everywhere?”

“Because you get paid two pounds fifty per hour more than me,” Phil points out and, well, Tom must admit that’s a pretty good reason. 

Phil turns his attention to Dan, who’s currently inspecting the oven with a sense of awe (such a fascinating invention).

“So, Dan, what’re you doing today?”

Dan straightens up at the mention of his name, “Tom said I can come to work with him.”

“Maybe,” Tom interjects, but the other two ignore him.

“That’s awesome!  Everyone’s super cool there, I’m sure you’ll love them. Hazel’s absolutely hilarious and PJ is the most creative person you’ll ever meet.”

Phil takes a step back, contemplative as he looks Dan up and down.  Dan’s ears turn pink under the scrutiny. Eventually Phil nods, as if coming to an important decision.

“I bet you’ll look great in green tights.”

~*~

It turns out Dan really does look good in green tights.

“Looking good, curly. I might even be a little jealous,” Phil comments, grinning as they exit the locker room together clad in green tunics and weird pointed hats, looking very much like the Christmas elves they’re supposed to be. Dan cocks his head to the side and turns to look at Phil, considering.

“You shouldn’t be jealous. Your symmetrical face and self-assured aura would be considered attractive by anyone,” Dan says, voice flat as if he’s listing off elementary facts. Phil smiles, amused, and his tongue sticks out in the corner of his mouth ever so slightly.

“Well, thank you Dan.”

“Plus, you have a lovely smile, it makes me feel warm,” Dan adds, and this time Phil laughs outright.  Dan doesn’t understand what’s so funny, but it doesn’t matter as long as Phil never stops laughing like this.

“You’re the most sincere person I’ve ever met,” Phil says once he’s calmed down a bit.  He’s still grinning when he bumps their shoulders together and starts walking again towards the front of the mall.

“Phil!”

A woman about Phil’s age and dressed in the same green elf costume comes bounding up to them, instantly capturing Phil in a massive hug.

“Thank god you’re here,” she exclaims in a heavy Irish accent, “I was worried you weren’t going to show and I’d be stuck on elf-duty by myself. I showed up early to get first choice of uniform so I wouldn’t get stuck with the crappy tights I had last year, they kept riding up my arse, it was hell.”

Phil laughs (the ringing kind, sounding like chimes being rustled by the wind, or a group of wine glasses being tapped together in a toast) and Dan feels something in his chest, something pushing at his ribs and whispering in his ear, reminding him that he only likes when Phil laughs like this if he’s the one to cause it.

“Is Hazel telling you about her tights situation as well? Not that these are tights, anyway, they’re definitely leggings.” Another man joins the little group, fitting in perfectly seeing how he’s dressed in the same elf costume, the only difference being the large camera hanging around his neck.

“It’s an exciting moment,” the woman (Hazel?) huffs.  She lightly punches the man’s shoulder.

“Okay you two, now that you’re both accounted for I’ve got to introduce you to this wonderful specimen next to me. This here is Dan, he’s an old friend of Tom’s so he’s staying with us until Christmas, and he’s going to be another one of Santa’s little helpers.  Dan, meet Hazel and PJ.  They’re both crazy but loveable.” Phil beams at the three of them. 

“Nice to meet you,” PJ smiles, “I hope you like the sound of screaming kids, because that’s all you’re going to hear for the next month.”

“Okay my elven comrades, enough playing around,” Hazel says, starting to walk towards the center of the mall and gesturing for the others to keep up, “we have a horde of rambunctious children expecting us to make their Christmas merry and gay and damn it Phil if you make one joke about how they must just be waiting for me since I’m the gayest thing they’ll ever see I’ll slap you, we have this conversation every year mate, every year.”

~*~

Despite Tom’s complaints, he’s actually a wonderful Santa.

Phil points it out later in the day while he and Dan are positioned near the front of the queue filled with energetic children and their impatient parents.

Dan’s not used to the level of pure energy surrounding him, so it’s a novel sight when he stops to watch the little girl at the front of the queue hop up and down, buzzing with excitement until it’s her turn to run up and give the real live Santa a hug.

“He says it’s because he spends way too much time with the three of us; he’s great at pretending to listen to excited children. So rude.”

“Why would anyone have to pretend to listen to you?” Dan asks, looking as if he has just heard the most absurd thing, “everything you say is always incredibly interesting, or funny, or—”

“You’re different from what I remember,” Phil interrupts. He’s staring at Dan with an unreadable expression, something he’s been doing a lot lately.

“Is that a bad thing?”

Phil shakes his head. “No, not at all. I quite like this Dan.”

Dan doesn’t respond, so he and Phil watch as the little girl finishes telling Tom (sorry, _Santa_ ) all of her secret wishes and gets her picture taken.  From her position on Santa’s right, Hazel (and according to Phil, “Santa’s bodyguard”) hands the girl a candy cane and leads her back to her mother.

Next in the queue is a boy no older than six clutching a crumpled piece of paper in his hands.  Phil kneels so they’re eye-to-eye.

“Alright, Mr.  Are you ready to meet Santa?”

“Yeah! I’ve got my letter for him, I wrote it myself,” the boy says, beaming with pride. Phil frowns in mock-consideration.

“Well, since you’ve come prepared you better get to it,” Phil unhooks the velvet rope to let him through, “but make sure to talk real loud, okay? Santa’s a few thousand years old so his hearing’s not what it used to be.”

The little boy nods, accepting his important mission, and rushes to jump onto Tom’s lap.

Phil tries his damnedest to keep a straight face when the kid starts screaming directly in Tom’s ear, but he doesn’t last long and suddenly he’s flush against Dan’s side, one arm wound tight around Dan’s waist and his face pressed against Dan’s neck to stifle his laughter because _it’s not that funny, I shouldn’t be laughing but the look on Tom’s face, did you see it, Dan? He’s so confused,_ so _confused)._

Dan’s frozen in place, his mind whirling because Phil’s draped against his side with an arm holding him in place and Dan doesn’t know what to do with his hands, he has them just at his sides right now but Tom always says he looks like Mark Zuckerberg when he does that and sure Dan doesn’t know who the guy is but it sounds like he’s not someone Dan wants to emulate.

Phil releases a soft breath against Dan’s neck and oh, okay, turns out doing things to Dan’s neck causes a weird ball of heat to build in his stomach.  

That’s… something.

Dan’s still dealing with his inner crisis when Phil pulls away to go deal with some mother complaining that _how can the line be taking so long, why aren’t you better organized?_  

With Phil gone Dan forces himself to clear his head, although his mind starts drifting off again when he realizes he probably got those tights Hazel was talking about earlier because they keep riding up.  This must be what ‘annoyed’ feels like.    

~*~

 Two nights later Dan finds himself waking up gasping for air.

The bedside clock reads 4:50am, which Dan’s seventy-percent sure is a rather rude time to wake someone up, but mortals have too many rules to keep track of so Dan wakes Tom anyway with a poke in the ribs.

Tom groans and turns on his side facing away.  Dan pokes him harder.

“No…what…sleep…”

Dan sits up a bit and leans on his elbow to better look at the other man, his eyes still adjusting to the dark.

“Tom, I need to ask you something,” Dan says, speaking at a normal volume instead of the more socially accepted whisper for this time of night. When Tom doesn’t respond Dan shakes his shoulders until Tom moans and blindly throws his arm behind him in hopes of warding off his attacker.

“Sleep, I’m sleeping. Go bother someone else.”

Dan shakes him a few more times to try and get him up, but all Tom does is turn onto his stomach and mumble profanities into his pillow.  Dan finally relents, muttering a loud fine before whipping the duvet off (making sure he takes it off Tom also because, well, he deserves it) and leaving the room.

The apartment dark, as one would expect so early in the morning, so Dan runs his hand along the wall to help him make his way down the hall. Without thinking he goes in the opposite side of the kitchen, stopping once he reaches the second bedroom located on the other side of the bathroom. The bedroom door’s shut, but he only hesitates for a moment before slowly cracking the door open to look inside.

“Phil?” His whisper feels like a shout in the silent room, but it must not have been loud enough because there’s no response.

Dan quietly enters the room and shuts the door.  He keeps his back pressed against the door when he calls out Phil’s name again, a little louder now, and this time he can see movement under the duvet. Phil sits up on his elbows, only opening one eye to greet his visitor, and Dan can’t help but stare for a moment at the figure before him, at the way the dim light streaming in through the windows reflect hints of red near the roots of his hair.

“Dan? What—are you okay?” Dan can tell Phil’s still struggling through the fuzz of sleep, mind still flirting at the edge of unconscious, but all the while they never take their eyes off each other.

Dan doesn’t remember walking to the side of the bed, but suddenly he’s stood inches away from Phil.

“Do you ever think of sleep?” Dan asks. He lifts his right knee to rest against the edge of the bed only about a hand’s width away from Phil’s abdomen.  Phil sits up more so he can better look at Dan, his back now resting against the headboard.   

“Not really, unless I’m super tired and wishing I could be in bed or something.  Why?”

“I don’t understand why people have to do it.  Sleep, I mean,” Dan answers, his voice ringing out through the quiet apartment, thunderous and deep compared to the preceding silence.

“Well, without it we would die, wouldn’t we?” Phil laughs, almost silent. Dan shakes his head and climbs the rest of the way onto the bed so he’s on his knees and resting back on his legs, hands folded in his lap.  

“But why are humans created to sleep at all? Isn’t it odd that you have to waste so much time in such a state?”

“I mean, I guess it’s a little weird,” Phil shrugs, “but it’s just how it is, no point in questioning it.”

“But it’s just so sad, why don’t people see that?” Dan asks, eyes growing wider by the second and Phil’s wearing that unreadable expression again but Dan needs answers, he’s spent millennia weighed down without answers and he has no one to go to.

Dan wasn’t lying when he told Tom there aren’t gods like those humans often worship, but Dan has no idea how he could explain how there is no creator, only the cycles of beings who roam the earth. Life and Death bring life and death, they do not cause or construct it. Life and Death have all the answers to the universe, but at the same time they have none.    

“Humans could have been made to do anything, why were they made to have to spend eight hours of their day completely still and silent when the other sixteen humans rush around unfilled and unhappy?” Dan sighs, “I see too many people leave this world with so much regret.”

 “Do you regret a lot of things?” Phil asks through a yawn, and Dan’s not sure if Phil cares about this conversation or is just participating to humour him (but either way Dan’s thankful).

"No, well, I don’t know. Regret only comes with a time limit, it’s not really my area of expertise.” Dan looks down at his hands.

“So what’s your area, then?”

Dan thinks for a moment before answering.

“Death.”

“Death?” Phil repeats, finally looking engaged, “Why death?”

Dan isn’t sure how to answer that. Saying _I am Death_ wouldn’t go over well, and for some reason talking with Tom feels different than talking with Phil. He doesn’t want Phil to know, doesn’t want Phil to look at him with fear. Dan couldn’t stand to be the cause of Phil’s fear.

“Fascination,” Dan finally comes up with.

“You’re fascinated with death?”

“Yes.”

“And you think sleep is a waste of time.  Time that is wasted if we assume most people die unfulfilled.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, maybe sleep is just practice for death,” Phil suggests.

“Why would you need to practice meeting Death?” Dan asks, wondering why humans would need to put so much time into meeting _him_. He’s not exactly someone one needs to impress.

“I don’t know. Maybe since death lasts forever we need to be in a state of nothing for a while, so when we suddenly die the eternal darkness won’t be a shock.”

“But, what if Death isn’t eternal darkness?” Dan says, remembering how so many souls, upon Death’s arrival, are so terrified, scared that there isn’t any new adventure to behold.

“Oh,” Phil laughs, “so you believe in a heaven then?”

“Not...not like what you’re thinking about,” Dan says after a moment, his voice finally growing softer, more at home amongst the darkness. And Dan isn’t quite sure what to say—he can’t reveal anything too detailed, about what is to come later, but he finds it a bit sad (sad, a tightness in his chest, a stillness in his breath) that Phil can’t look forward to a new adventure once he’s finished with the one he’s on.

“But maybe there’s something more?” Dan finally settles on, looking at Phil in a way that feels like his eyes might be pleading.

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Phil says, yawning again and laying back down on the bed, the need to fall back to sleep growing too heavy.  Suddenly Dan feels it too, the weight on his eyes and to cool touch pushing him down.

“Do you think there’s something more?”

Phil doesn’t look at Dan while he thinks of an answer.

“I hate thinking about death, to be honest.”  It’s not really an answer, but the way he says it Dan can tell it’s all Phil’s going to say on the matter. Dan feels winded from the answer but he ignores the pain in his chest, pushes it to the back of his mind to think about another day.  

“Can I stay here?” Dan asks, not waiting for an answer as he lays down on his side, the two boys facing each other, close enough that the hair on their arms are nearly touching. Phil nods but otherwise remains silent.

“Dan?” Phil asks, sounding almost asleep. Dan makes a humming sound to show that he’s listening.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your question,” Phil whispers. Dan can feel Phil’s breath from each word.

“What question?”

“I’m not sure,” Phil says, “but I don’t feel like I answered it.”

“Thank you for listening,” Dan mumbles.  They fall back into silence, waiting for sleep to take them.

“Dan? Why were you thinking about sleep?”

Dan can feel himself start to drift away as he answers.

“I’m just not used to it I guess.”

 

 


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time.

“What’re you eating?” Dan asks, watching as Phil spreads something kind of yellowy-brown on a piece of toast (toast: what you make when you use a toaster).

“Peanut butter.” Phil replies, licking a bit of the substance off his pinky finger, and there it is again, that tightness in Dan’s stomach, a pressure in his core like someone’s squeezing him a bit too hard. It’s odd, Death realizes, how he only feels that way when he’s with Phil.

“It’s like regular butter?” Dan asks and Phil widens his eyes, eyebrows disappearing under his mussed-up fringe in a way that makes something bubble up in Dan’s throat.  A small part of himself wonders if this is how happiness feels (happiness: content feeling, warmth, soft hands, smile).

“Don’t tell me you’ve never had peanut butter before?” Phil gasps, shocked, and when Dan shakes his head he feels something heat up in his cheeks. When he lifts one hand his skin feels warm to the touch, which is odd.

“Well then,” Phil smiles, one hand reaching into a drawer to pull out a spoon (note: don’t put a spoon into a working toaster), brandishing it like a sword, “we’ll just have to change that.” Phil dips the spoon into the jar and scoops up some before handing it to Dan.

“Should I make some toast, too?” Dan asks. Phil rolls his eyes before gesturing wildly with his hands.

“Just eat it already!”

Dan nods, eyeing the spoon, before slipping it in his mouth, sucking on the sweet taste. Phil can’t help but giggle at the sight, watching Dan as his face rapidly switches between eight different emotions at once.

“So? Do you like it?” Phil asks. Dan takes the spoon out of his mouth but doesn’t say anything as he reaches over to scoop up another spoonful of peanut butter.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Phil laughs, the wrinkles around his eyes showing as he smiles.

“I think I like peanut butter almost as much as I like you,” Dan says a few moments later when Phil takes a bite of his sandwich.  For some reason Phil makes a rather odd strangled sound in reply, which is weird, sure, but not concerning enough to distract Dan from having another spoonful of peanut butter.

~*~

  
After work that day Dan can’t help but feel content as the five of them leave the mall together, all back in their street clothes. Tom’s grumbling about the kid who threw up all over his lap this afternoon, the air is chilly, the snow sticking to the ground around them in dirty clumps, and every time a taxi drives by the brown slosh at the side of the roads are sprayed up, yet Dan can’t help but think about how the world has never looked so beautiful, never in all the time he’s been in existence.

“So, food?” PJ suggests, throwing an arm around Tom from where they’re walking a bit slower, a few steps behind the other three. Hazel seconds the motion in about a second and Phil doesn’t even have to think about it to agree.

“I vote Indian,” Phil says.  Tom pouts.

“I hate spicy food.”

Phil rolls his eyes even though Tom can’t even see it, “you’re always able to find something to eat when we go there.”

“You just like going there because you can flirt with the waiter,” Tom throws back; PJ’s giggling next to him.

“Flirting is what you do when you want to marry someone, right?” Dan asks, looking over to Hazel with a puzzled expression (because even though he’s not sure, he doesn’t really like the sound of it… or the fact that Phil’s doing it with a waiter). Hazel giggles, finding Dan’s ignorance ever amusing, but before anyone else can speak Phil lets out a tiny yelp and trips over himself, slipping on a piece of ice and falling on the sidewalk, the back of his head smacking against the concrete.

“Phil!” PJ’s the first to move, swinging around to the front of his friend to check for blood. The snow is starting to stain pink so he pulls off his jacket and presses it against the side of Phil’s head.

“‘M fine, PJ,” Phil mumbles, trying to sit up even though a pair of hands are pushing him back down.

“It’s bleeding everywhere, mate.”

“ _Everywhere_ ,” Hazel agrees, staring at the stained snow as all the colour drains from his face, “you fell pretty hard, you might have a concussion or something.”

“I’ll call an ambulance.” Tom says, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone, but Phil’s hand is flying out to hit him on the wrist.

“No way,” Phil says, but even a stranger could tell that his voice is slurring.

“Why don’t we just get a car and we’ll take you to the A&E ourselves then?” PJ suggests, obviously not wanting to fight with Phil at the moment. Phil gives a non-committal hum in reply, but everyone takes it as an affirmative and before Dan knows it Tom’s calling an Uber, walking up and down the sidewalk as if it’ll come quicker. Dan also notices, in that moment, that he hadn’t moved at all since Phil fell. He’s not sure what that means.

The A&E is packed when they arrive, all five of them squeezing through the automatic doors to get out of the chill. PJ walks Phil up to the counter while the other three find a seat amongst the crowd, Hazel and Tom finally deciding to sit in between a teen with a knife wound in the shoulder and an elderly man asleep against the wall. Dan stands in front of them, not wanting to sit.

The automatic doors open again and a young woman enters, pushing another elderly women in front of her in a wheelchair. 

Dan has no idea why he’s staring but he can’t look away.

She leaves her mother in the middle of the small resting room while she goes up to the counter to talk to the nurse, and as she leaves the mother starts to moan and call out something in a strong Irish accent. It takes a while for Dan to notice that the elderly woman’s staring at him, _pointing_ at him, but she quickly grows loud enough to cause people to stare.

“Dan, what are you doing? You gotta stop, you’re scaring everyone,” Tom whispers, loud enough for only Dan to hear.  Dan ignores his guide, all of his attention on the woman. He moves closer to her despite Tom’s protests.

“It’s time, it’s come, it’s time,” she’s repeating, chanting like a mantra, her words slurring together, both due to her heavy accent and the weight age puts on coherency, but Dan can understand (he’s Death, Death hears everything).

“It’s not your time yet, sister, there’s nothing to fear,” Dan answers, ignoring the stares from around the room and Hazel’s confused cough and the defeated way that Tom slumps forward in his seat, head in his hands.

“No, no, no, it’s here, it’s here, you lie,” she insists, her knuckles turning white as she grips the edges of her chair like a vice.

“I never lie,” Dan says, kneeling before her like an offering, placing his palms on her frail knees, “I’m not here for you, there is nothing for you to be frightened of.”

“But you’re here for me,” She presses on, her hands shaking as she reaches forward and grabs the front of his jumper, crumpling it in her fist with a surprising amount of strength.

“No, I’m just on holiday,” Dan says.  He tries to comfort her but all he can give is an eerie smile, his borrowed skin stretched a bit too taut along his face and lips far too wide.

It’s odd, she almost looks _disappointed_ in him.

“But you can make it go away?” she insists.  Her eyes scream in desperation.

“Make what go away?”

“All the pain,” she clarifies, words sharp.  For the first time in a long time Death doesn’t know what to say.

“Pain’s not my area, ma’am. I can’t do anything for you.”

“Yes, yes you can! It’s you—my dying is slow and painful and it’s because of _you,_ ” she insists, unhinged.

“I can’t interfere with Fate.”

“You can make it end,” the woman argues, “you can just take me now and let me rest.”

Death shakes his head.

“I can’t take anyone before they’re ready, and you’re not ready yet,” he explains, calm despite the tears slowly rolling down her cheeks.

“I’m so tired. It’s not that scary, right? Death?”

“No, I’m not,” He promises her.  He doesn’t break eye-contact while he slowly untangling her fingers from his shirt.

“Then I’m ready.  It’s _time_ ,” She pleads, resisting as he sets her hand back in her lap.  Her eyes burn when Death stands back up.

“I can’t help you, yet. Here, your daughter is coming for you now.” Death nods a goodbye before returning to his borrowed friends, ignoring her cries and wondering if he was always without sympathy or if it just came with the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the read! Leave a comment with your thoughts if you want (comments, even constructive criticism, makes me feel warm and tingly inside).
> 
> Follow me on tumblr if you want at [dontforgettopanic.tumblr.com](https://dontforgettopanic.tumblr.com/)


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